In the spring of 2014, I found a small dog wandering in front of my house.

The streets of our neighborhood in North Denver were dotted with small brick houses,

and the nights were often

punctuated with gunfire and drunken shouting.

I coaxed the friendly Chihuahua into my arms and found that he was tagged with an address

just two blocks away, so I decided to return the cute little thing to his owner, but I was alone and didn't know what kind of situation I'd find

when I knocked on the door.

So, when I saw a police cruiser parked on the street,

I thought, I'll just ask the officer to keep an eye on me as I return the dog,

you know, make sure I was safe.

When a young black woman answered the door, she did not seem to be relieved or grateful

that a white lady was returning her lost dog as I had expected, but instead had a look of terror

on her face when she saw a cop parked in front of her house.

She just said, okay, as I handed her the dog, but she never took her eyes off the cop.

I had thought, oh good, a police officer.

From the look on her face and from what I now know about policing in America,

I wonder if she thought, oh shit, a police officer.

I think of her expression often as I learn more about the lived reality of black people in this country

and the threat to their peace and their bodies and their families that a single

encounter with law enforcement can bring. I think about the real risk I put her in by bringing

police to her door and how I made her unsafe just because I was uncomfortable. I didn't know what I didn't know. And now I wonder how the hell

I could have not known, especially because at the time I really thought I knew stuff, like I was sure of it,

...